


Hell of a Journey

by aww_writing_no



Category: Marvel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Inspired by Orpheus and Eurydice (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 14:44:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20472764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aww_writing_no/pseuds/aww_writing_no
Summary: As god of the underworld, Clint made it a habit to greet each new guest to his kingdom. He did NOT make a habit of letting his guests go, but in this case he might be persuaded.[The Orpheus and Eurydice AU that nobody asked for.]





	Hell of a Journey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bedlamwolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bedlamwolf/gifts).

> If you're familiar with the Orpheus and Eurydice myth, you won't be surprised by how this ends. 
> 
> If you aren't - spoilers! - they don't all live happily ever after.

The fall of another mortal should have been unremarkable, Clint thought as he sat on his ebony throne, cypress bow in hand. And yet this one - this one seemed special, somehow. 

Clint made it a habit to greet each new guest to his kingdom. Escorted by Charon across the Styx, they arrived to his throne room to be welcomed into the underworld. For some, wicked or deceitful in life, his welcome was not what they desired. Clint was long unmoved by their lamentations, leaving their sad fates to his Fury. 

This one, however, gazed at him, untouched by his stern demeanor even as Clint stood, displaying his formidable height. Resting his bow against his foot, Clint studied the mortal before him. Clad in a warrior’s red chiton, the young man stood defiant, as if daring Clint to inflict his worst. 

Natasha stepped onto the dais to peer around Clint’s shoulder, lithe body pressed against his back while a lily-white arm wrapped around his neck. He placed a hand over her wrist, stroking her gently, appreciative of her company for the few months that she was his. 

“I think our new guest has a visitor,” she murmured, running a soft finger down his cheek. 

Clint’s eyes flashed, following her gaze to see another young man clad in a warrior’s chiton approaching the throne. Unlike the rest of the guests in his kingdom, this young man was  _ living _ . 

“How did you get past Lucky?” Clint hissed, plucking an arrow from the quiver at his hip and drawing his bow. “Who are you to trespass on my dark kingdom?” 

The living man gave Clint a deep bow before sinking to one knee. “I am called Steve Rogers, and I have come to beg a boon from the lord of the underworld,” he said, ignoring the first question and meeting Clint’s eyes with an unwavering gaze. “Release to me the soul of my brother, and I will render any payment you see fit.” 

Clint raised an eyebrow and relaxed the draw of his bow. “Any payment?” he asked this Steve Rogers. “Know you what punishments are inflicted here in the realms of the dead?” 

Behind him Natasha laughed wickedly. “You seek to make an infernal bargain, young Rogers,” she said, rolling a pomegranate between her hands as she continued to speak. “When you return to us, shall we set upon you unending thirst, never to be quenched however much you drink? Shall we tie you to an ever spinning wheel, movements never ceasing as you tumble through our kingdom? Shall we gift you a rock, larger than yourself, and task you to roll it uphill for all eternity? Or shall we simply send you to Tartarus and let Fury do to you what he will?” 

Steve’s gaze wavered slightly as Natasha listed off the punishments, but he set his jaw and repeated his statement. “Release to me the soul of my brother, and I will render any payment you see fit.” 

Clint cocked his head, impressed by the young man’s mettle. “Very well,” he said. “What have you to offer me that my kingdom of riches beneath the earth does not provide?” 

“I am an artist of some renown,” he answered quickly. “I studied under the muse Calliope, and would paint you a mural befitting the splendor of your throne room.” 

Clint turned to Natasha, the question evident in his eyes. Her gaze flickered to the bare walls before tossing him the pomegranate, her answer clear. 

“This offer is acceptable,” Clint said, raising a finger to forestall an agreement. “If I judge your mural worthy, you may be granted your brother’s soul under one condition. Do you agree?” 

“I agree,” he responded without hesitation. 

“Very well, you may begin.” 

Steve was provided all the materials he could possibly require, and painted without stop until every daktylos of the walls were covered in pigment. The surfaces were covered in grand illustrations, depicting nearly every aspect of life within the four realms. Poseidon pulled islands out of the sea while sailors threw horses overboard in offering to his brother. Zeus sat atop Mount Olympus, thunderbolts in hand with his pantheon stretched out behind him. On earth, humans built temples to honor the gods, and bloody battles stretched out a plethron in length. 

But largest of all was the image of Clint and Natasha, ruling over their population of the dead. Lucky sat by Clint’s feet, tongues lolling happily in all three heads. Behind them the six rivers flowed, their twists and turns forming the shape of a giant narcissus flower. 

“Your skills do not belie your boast,” Clint told him, pleased with the mural adorning his throne room. “Very well, you will be granted your brother’s soul. The condition is this: his shade will follow you as you depart from my kingdom, but you may not look back at him until you return to the light of the earthly realm. Should your conviction waver and you turn your gaze upon him, he will return to me, forever to remain as a guest in my kingdom.” 

Steve smiled, holding a hand out to his brother who stepped beside him. “It is easily done,” he replied with confidence. “My thanks, great Agesander.” 

Clint retired to his ebony throne, Natasha draped lazily across his lap to watch their journey through the shadowy realm. The young warriors stepped boldly at the start, but as time dragged on through the shadows, Clint could see Steve’s resolve begin to flag. Twice he nearly turned back, catching himself and closing his eyes just in time.

About to cross the threshold into the light, Steve’s final wisp of belief disappeared and he turned to see if his brother followed. With a soft pang of regret, Clint snapped his fingers and the shade of his brother crumbled into dust. Steve let out an unearthly howl, sinking to his knees, arms outstretched in grief. 

Natasha uncoiled herself from Clint’s lap and he stood, regarding the form of the young man Steve had failed to save. Once more he stood before Clint, back straight and defiant. 

“Who are you, for him to risk so much?” Clint asked, overcome with curiosity over this strange young man. 

“They call me Bucky,” he replied, meeting Clint’s eyes. “We were brothers-in-arms.” 

Clint nodded in understanding, hearing everything left unsaid. He reached out a hand wordlessly, and Bucky placed his palm on Clint’s. He followed Clint to the River Lethe, where he stepped into the swirling currents to bathe in oblivion. 

“Safe travels to the islands of Elysium,” Clint murmured quietly, turning his gaze back to the earthly realm. In his grief, the warrior Steve Rogers had thrown himself furiously into the heat of battle. He screamed his rage, breaking rank and throwing his shield into the face of his enemy. 

Clint raised his hands in salute. “Good luck, young Rogers,” he said softly. “I expect to be welcoming you back to my kingdom soon.” 

**Author's Note:**

> So, [Bedlamwolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bedlamwolf/pseuds/Bedlamwolf) was throwing shade at a prompt list I was working with and said "I throw them into Hades I cast so much shade". 
> 
> And like Athena, this ficlet was born.


End file.
